


Lord of Misrule

by Jaybeefoxy



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: AU, Christmas Mystrade, Christmas Mystrade AU, Fluff, M/M, Medieval AU, Yuletide, Yuletide Fluff, holiday fluff, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:46:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28478637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaybeefoxy/pseuds/Jaybeefoxy
Summary: The Yule Ball has come to Sherrinford, and Lord Mycroft presides, but tonight, the Holly King is chosen, the man who must become Lord of Misrule for a night and swap places with the Lord of the Keep. Mycroft must serve the man during the feast, and swap his title for a more lowly position.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 12
Kudos: 90
Collections: Mystrade Holiday 2020





	Lord of Misrule

**Author's Note:**

> This is very quasi medieval, not completely historical, nor completely fantasy, simply a (rather late) offering for the season. Carson is of course borrowed from Downton Abbey. Hope you all enjoy.

Mycroft, Lord Holmes, proceeded steadily through the corridors of his home, his measured step at odds with his mind, which was racing through his itinerary for the day. This would be his first Winter Festival, his first Yule as Lord of the Keep. It had been one of his father’s favourite times of the year, not, alas, a sentiment shared by his son. _No more though,_ Mycroft thought sadly. He observed the liveried servants in their green and grey russet hurrying past, bearing armfulls of greenery and trailing bright silk ribbons in their wake, holly berries like drops of blood in the green. Everyone was heading toward the Great Hall, and Mycroft went with the flow, intent on viewing the preparations. Outside snow was falling, already several inches thick in places with no sign of stopping. Winter had well and truly set in, people were staying indoors and keeping warm around their fires. 

Yuletide in this part of the world was a whole week long, seven days of feasting and gift giving and merriment, bringing light into the darkness. Fires and candles were lit, homes were decorated with evergreen garlands, and wreaths of ivy and fir and bright holly berries were hung on doors. Sprigs of mistletoe were hung high and young swains were hopeful of a kiss under it for luck. Hopefully the mistletoe would work its magic and the kisser would become their affianced. Mycroft had no such hopes. 

Above the general background noises—footsteps, murmured voices, rustling foliage, instruments being tuned, and the wind gusting against the stone of the Keep walls, rattling window shutters as it did—Mycroft could hear the staccato orders being issued by the Steward, Anderson, trying to keep the younger servants in order as they scurried around. _Nobody could miss hearing_ , he thought. The man’s sharp voice was raised over the din, adding to the din itself. Mycroft’s Chamberlain, Carson—an altogether more sober member of his staff—was standing just inside the entrance to the Great Hall, directing people hither and yon, a perpetual frown in place as he inspected the offerings as they arrived. In his long dark-green robes, he looked every inch the court official, a respected authority figure, unlike Anderson who seemed to rule mostly by shouting at people. Carson rarely if ever raised his voice, although he treated most of the servants with barely hidden impatience. He liked efficiency, and order, and most of the servants provided neither one nor t’other.

"That goes over there...no, no, put that on the table, you numbskull. There are no hangers on it, are there? Hey, you! Yes, you, the boy with the blue cap, move that swag up a little on the left, it’s askew...no, no, _the left_ , you idiot…"

Mycroft paused in the doorway, waiting patiently for a pause in Carson’s litany. He found himself waiting a while, amused by the man’s constant war with incompetence and lackadaisical behaviour. "You seem to have everything in hand this morning, Charles," Mycroft interrupted eventually. The man spun round, registered who was speaking and bowed in one smooth movement. 

"Greetings, my lord. I hope this morning finds you well."

"As well as can be expected, I suppose, given the situation we find ourselves in. How do the preparations fare?"

"As well as can be expected, m'lord. We should have everything ready before this evening. We are a little short of Holly for the entrance hall, but someone has been dispatched post-haste to gather more. How fares your father?”

Mycroft grimaced a little. “Also as well as can be expected. He keeps asking for our mother, but of course, he doesn’t understand that she’s gone.” 

“A difficult situation, my Lord, one which, if I may be so bold as to say, you are handling very well. Your transition here has been nigh on seamless, although this is your first festival ball, is it not?”

“Yes it is, and thank you for your confidence, Carson.”

“Not at all, sir. I am merely speaking the truth. No boy, not there!" he snapped, his eyes sliding to a spot beyond Mycroft’s shoulder, his attention taken by another miscreant. "For Goodness’ sake, tie it off to the beam! Yes, there…" He shook his head. "My apologies, m’lord. I hear herding cats is perhaps easier than this undertaking." 

Mycroft chuckled. “On the contrary, Carson. You seem to have things admirably in hand, as always…”

Carson flapped his hands at another group just entering the hall from behind Mycroft. "Wait, wait, wait! How many times do I have to tell you?” He turned apologetically to Mycroft. “I am sorry, my lord. Duty calls. Was there anything…?" 

“No, no, do not let me keep you. I was merely checking on progress, which seems to be fine. Please, carry on.” Carson bowed, then marched purposefully toward the group in question to examine their burdens and direct them to where they were required.

Mycroft sighed, making his way carefully between the tables. It was the day before Winter Festival and the Yule Ball at the Keep and everything was being readied for the following evening’s feasting and merriment. Tomorrow night those tables would ring to the sound of all and sundry joining in the midwinter revelry. It was traditional, the one night of the year, the longest one, when the doors of the Great Hall were thrown open to host both Commoner and Lord together. The townsfolk would draw lots to see who would take the role of the Holly King, the Lord of Misrule, who would then take Mycroft's place at the head of the high table. Those of low rank would then be served by those of higher rank for the duration of the evening. Carson would find himself on the high table, being served by his Lord, instead of overseeing the waiters and serving at table himself. Those same servants would sit and be served by the Guild Masters. 

Mycroft couldn't begrudge folk their fun. Life was hard, and not always fair, and any excuse for fun and jollity was to be grabbed with both hands. Nothing ever really got too out of hand. There would be the usual drunken sots, too in their cups by the end of the night to find their way home. Some folk would enjoy playing tricks on others and best not begrudge the playing of tricks on them in return. Some would joke and flirt the night away, perhaps even ending up in someone else’s bed. Nothing was frowned on at this time of year, as long as all were agreeable and nobody took advantage. Mycroft had to hope that the rowdiness would be kept to a minimum. After all, that’s what the Stewards were for. Anderson would be joined by Donovan and Moran, and together they were supposed to prevent any truly riotous behaviour. It was still bawdy, noisy, and uproarious, but everything had to return to normal the day after, and nobody wanted to upset their Lords and Masters by doing something too outrageous or injurious. Broken pots were to be expected, broken heads were not.

On the level above the Great Hall dias, on the Minstrels’ Gallery, the musicians were practicing. Several pipe players—one on the sackbut, two on shawms and two recorder players—were joined by a man with bagpipes, and another with a lute. There was a drummer—Mycroft recognised Bill Wiggins—together with a hurdy gurdy player and a harpist. A young boy—Archie if Mycroft’s memory served—was vigorously shaking small round bells on a stick. Six singers, male and female, were standing to either side. One of the senior musicians was directing operations, doing his best to direct proceedings with varying levels of success. Mycroft smiled, thinking that perhaps folk would soon be too inebriated to care what the musicians sounded like. They provided music for dancing, and that was perhaps all people cared about. 

Avoiding servants fetching linen and plate to the tables, Mycroft ventured across the hall, stepping into an adjoining anteroom with windows that looked out onto the courtyard below. A table was laden with cups ready for the serving of ale and wine but otherwise the room was quiet. Through the snow flurries, Mycroft could see a few hardy souls who were struggling through it, going about their business despite the weather. Life went on, no matter what. Mycroft spied one such who was tall and broad, with a red cap, silvering hair stuck out beneath it. The man was making light work of carrying a crate of pewterware toward one of the many Inns serving the town. The Magpie had been built against the Courtyard wall, a watering place for soldiers and Keep workers alike. It was a popular place, run by a foreigner, Angelo, a wine trader who had visited years back and decided to settle. 

"Good morrow, Angelo."

Angelo glanced up from his place behind the bar to see a familiar figure approaching, shouldering open the door, shaking snow off his head and shoulders as he did so. He was carrying a wooden crate in strong arms. The man grinned, showing teeth, his brown eyes merry as he set the crate down upon a table. 

"Gregory,” Angelo said, cheerfully. “Come within, my friend. How are you?"

“Faring well enough. I fetched your new tankards, _my lord,"_ he said with a grin, making a little bow. 

"I thank you, _my fine fellow_ ," Angelo replied in jest. "Just in time too. What, pray, do I owe you for this fine labour?" He picked over the offerings in the crate appreciatively.

"Well, there's a dozen pints, eight small cups, three jugs. I know I said thirty crowns for the lot but there's four less small cups than you ordered. I ran out of metal because I had a large order from the Keep to fulfill for Festival, and I can’t ignore an order from the Keep, so, what say we knock six crowns and ten ducats off, unless you want to pay me the whole thing and I’ll deliver the rest after New Year. I'll make them when I've been to the capital to acquire some more ingots, but that will have to wait until the river ice melts.”

“I shall pay you your thirty, it is what we agreed,” Angelo reassured. “Make me the rest when you can. I trust you to honour our agreement, unlike some others I could name. I admit I also found some old cups packed in the cellar, a little dented but not holed, so they’ll still serve, so I’m not as short as I thought.”

“If you’ve any need mending, I could perhaps see to that for you? I might even be able to repair them by tomorrow, if you’re lucky, and if they’re beyond repair, I may be able to melt them down and make new ones. Although that will take longer, but it’s worth a look.”

“I shall bear that in mind. There were a few I set aside as no use. If you can reuse the metal you can have them.”

“Done. I’m happy to take that as part payment.” 

Angelo nodded and shook his hand. “Deal. I need anything I can get. I’m expecting a crowd tomorrow night, although most will be at the Keep proper. I’m hoping it’s rowdy enough that nobody notices the old vessels I am using.” 

“Doubt it, they’ll be more concerned with the quality of the ale, which is always good. I’m heading to the Keep myself tomorrow. I’ve been invited there this year.” 

“Lucky man. You never know, you might end up as Lord of Misrule.”

“Nah, not me. I’m not that lucky.”

**0000000**

Holmes Keep, perched as it was above the prosperous market town of Sherrinford, was the center of government for the Shire. It consisted of a large stone Keep, surrounded by high walls, now shrouded in snow and mist, its turrets ethereal in the gathering dusk. Imposing as it was, it was home to many, and shortly those folk would be engaged in celebration, for the shortest day was upon them once more, the Winter Solstice, and the Festival of Light. The fire would be lit, the Yule log having been dragged all the way from the nearby forest with much ceremony. It was always a festival of grand proportions. The Yule Ball was never taken lightly in this part of the world. 

Against this backdrop, people in the town were setting their homes against the necessities of winter. The season was beginning to bite, the wind had stripped the trees of what little leaf was left after the gales of autumn, and snow lay thick and heavy on the frosted ground. Beasts had been slaughtered, their meat dressed and salted, smoked and dried. Those beasts that had been kept to breed the following year were stabled in barn spaces adjoining the houses, their warmth keeping the occupants of the house warm as well. The grain had long ago been harvested and stored, and the hedgerows had been stripped of hips, hawes and berries, their ripe sweetness preserved in jams and syrups and chutneys, or set to foment into spirits. Fruit of any kind was either dried, pickled or preserved, in every bottle and jar available. The store cupboards and larders and pantries were burgeoning with a good season’s harvest. It was a season to repair and replace, and Greg was kept busy at his forge as a result. 

As he left The Magpie, his belly pleasantly full of Angelo’s warm spiced ale and his crate now laden with the metalware to be mended, Greg glanced up at the keep windows, shuttered now, but light still spilling from the cracks. Since thirty crowns weighed his pouch down, he diverted into the Keep to speak to His Lordship’s Factor. Edwin was responsible for taking taxes, tithes and rents, and also for deposited money in the Keep’s vaults. Townsfolk had accounts there, storing their money in safety, in exchange for a small fee, and Greg was no different. He passed three quarters of it to the man, keeping some to pay his own debts and to pay for something new for the festival ball on the morrow. He watched as Edwin scribbled the new amount in Greg’s account book, as well as in the ledger placed on the lectern to one side of his small office off the main hall. Greg had nigh two hundred crowns in his account, and a little more than half of that would go on a new order of metal when he visited the capital in the New Year. 

“There you are, Master Lestrade. All present and correct. Shall we see you on the morrow?”

“You shall. I’m headed for the tailors right now. I need to pay him for my finery for the festival.”

Edwin smiled expansively. “Then we shall see you tomorrow eve. I shall bid you farewell then, until later.”

“Until later,” Greg agreed. “Thank you, Factor.”

As he was passing through the Keep gate a voice hailed him. “Master Lestrade, is that you?”

“Mistress Hudson, as I live and breathe. How are you?” Greg set the crate down and took the lady’s hand, bringing it to his lips.

“Oh, you,” the old lady said, simpering. “Just like your father, you are. Charming man he was. How are you, lad?”

“I’m fine. Where have you been though? Not seen you for ages. How’s master Hudson?”

“He’s dead, dear, but don’t you worry about that. I’ve done well enough. My husband was executed last year…” She didn’t seem too grieved about it either. 

Greg stared. “I...oh, dear...that’s terrible…” he stuttered, struggling for something appropriate to say. 

“Only for him, the devious bastard,” the lady said, with a smile. The profanity was so surprising, Greg laughed. 

“By the Gods,” he said, “What on earth happened? I thought you two were happy.”

“Hardly. I never understood why he wanted to move, until it was too late. Made his money with gambling, illegal substances, theft, blackmail…” She sighed. “It’s alright now though. Young Sherlock came to my rescue…”

“What, Sherlock Holmes? Lord Mycroft’s brother?”

“The same. He ensured my husband got what he deserved, and I inherited everything the Crown didn’t seize, which was still quite a lot. Spent a while with my cousin, Mistress Turner, but truly, Sherrinford is my home. I came back a couple of months ago, got a place on the street of bakers. I’m comfortable.” 

“So you’re settled?”

“Yes, I am, dear.” She patted his arm. “Anyway, enough about me. I heard about your lady. Sad business.”

“Yeah, twice. One died and the other ran off. I’ve rather had no luck with love, Mistress.”

“You’re alone now? That’s no way to be at winter festival, and you being such a good looking lad too.”

“Not always under my control, Mistress. Anyway, I’ve been invited to the keep for the festival ball, so you never know. Forgive me,” he said, hefting the crate into his arms again. “Time’s getting on and I have to get this lot home.” 

“Come for tea, dear. Look for Speedwell’s Bakery. I live above it.” 

Well, that was a surprise. Two people who would swear young Sherlock saved them. Greg had known the lad before he went to university in the big city. He well knew that Angelo was appreciative of Sherlock’s intervention on his behalf a few years ago. The young man had a reputation for solving crimes. Sherlock’s brother, the new Lord of the Keep, Mycroft Holmes, had his promising career as a lawyer cut short. The family had visited the old Lord’s brother in the capital the previous summer, and while there they had caught some deadly pestilence which had killed Lady Holmes and her daughter, left their father with damage to his mind, but the two boys had been mercifully immune. 

Of Mycroft not much was known. He was quiet, reclusive, and not given to socialising. He was known to be fair in his dealings with others, a good judge at the Manor Court, and he was also fairly young, in his mid-thirties, but he never been known for being gregarious. Most young men, even lordlings, would likely frequent the inns and taverns around the place, but of Mycroft and his younger brother, there had been little sign. Mycroft hadn’t actually been sighted in the town since taking over the reins the previous year, while before that, his father was often to be found conversing with everybody, from the traders and the tavern keepers, to the washerwomen, the potters, the pie sellers, the bakers. The man had never considered anybody to be beneath him. Even Greg had conversed with Siger on occasion, although he mostly dealt with Edwin, the Factor, where it came to the orders for metalwork from the Keep. Thus far Greg had seen neither hide nor hair of either Mycroft or his younger brother. 

**0000000**

“So, good sir,” Angelo said to the sandy haired stranger sitting in his dining room, “you used to live here abouts?”

“Aye, I did. Been a long time since I was here though.” The man put down his spoon, having finished his bowl of stew. “That,” he said, “was delicious. Thank your cook for me.”

“I shall. So…” Angelo tipped his jug and refilled the man’s mug. “What brings you back?”

“I’ve done with the wars, and I’ve finished my service.” He tugged a silver medallion out from under his clothing. It bore a red and white enamel rope border, a caduceus within it, with crossed spears behind it. He wore it on a red and white woven ribbon, to signify his military service was at an end, and he had been discharged, with honours. Had it been on a red ribbon, it would mean he was still on active service, black would mean discharge for other less-honourable reasons. 

“A barber surgeon no less?”

“Also yes, attached to the Northumbria Watch.”

Angelo nodded. “It is home to a quieter country you come, sir. We’ve had the stuffing knocked from us all with foreign wars. Now the new king is on the throne, we shall see what the future brings. We have opened our river and our doors again to foreign trade, but things are only recovering slowly. Trade is up a little, and there’s a new Lord at the Keep. Time will tell what happens there.”

“It was old Siger Holmes when I was growing up. I heard his sons were...a bit _unusual_ …”

“Aye, well, they’re clever, whatever else they might be. The elder has become the new Lord and his rule is steady and fair. The younger Lord is, perhaps, not as settled as his brother, but I’ll not hear a word against Master Sherlock for all that. The lad’s brain is...remarkable. He saved me once…”

“That sounds like a story worth the telling.”

“It is, it is. I might deign to tell you one day,” Angelo grinned, disarmingly. He liked the stranger, but he was wary. This shortish, stockily-built northerner, with his blond hair and blue eyes, was good humoured, if a little serious. There was a quick and clever sense of humour there, hidden perhaps behind his traumatic history in the foreign wars, but there was a glint in his eye that perhaps could be coaxed to return. “Safe to say, he did me a favour for which no payment on earth would be enough, but I do what I can. They’ve suffered misfortune though. The family went to the capital last summer, to visit with the old Lord’s brother and Master Mycroft. He was carving out a career for himself as a lawyer in the capital, but a fever struck them down while they were there. Took their mother and sister from them, and although their father survived, he is much changed. I hear the man has no stamina left and he keeps forgetting things. He’s lucky, as all Lords are, he has servants to help him and Lord Mycroft has taken over the running of the estate completely. The two brothers seemed to be mercifully immune to the sickness.” 

“That’s...unfortunate, but merciful that they survived. I heard about that sickness, it was frightening. Fever one day, dead by the next, seemingly no cure. It’s gone now though, so I heard. Swept through in summer and died off again when the cold weather came. At least there had been no new cases by the time I arrived back in Autumn. No new deaths either.”

“A mercy. One can only hope it doesn’t return next year.”

“Amen to that. So, do you think there might be work at the keep for such as I?” “Perhaps. Another physician won’t come amiss. So, stranger, what was thy name again?”

“John, Watt the Weaver’s son. My parents lived behind the street of Bakers.”

“Well, John Watt’s son, if you need a room, we are here. As to a place to live, there are a few empty properties but not many. You should apply to the Lord’s Factor, Edwin. He might be able to help you. Good luck at the Keep though, it will be busy. They’re in the midst of preparation for the Winter Festival tomorrow night, the Yule Ball.” 

“I have no idea what day it is. We took longer than I expected to get here.” John stood up, smiled and shouldered his pack. “Thank ye kindly for the food, and the advice, Master Angelo.” He placed a gold crown on the table between them. “A merry Yule to you and your family.”

“My thanks,” Angelo said, pocketing the coin. “Remember, should you need a room...”

“I’ll come back if I need to, thank you.”

John had found the town much changed since he had left it, six years since. Gathered raggedly around the base of the old castle, Sherrinford was still a tidy and prosperous market town, if a bit larger since John left. It still had a reputation for producing woven wool textile of excellent quality, and many talented artisans were still occupying its narrow streets. John’s own parents had been master weavers, Watt and his wife, Ellen. They had died some years before he had left, and his older sister, Harriet, had taken over. He was reluctant to turn up on her doorstep after all this time, though. John would visit, but not just yet. His sister liked her ale too much and they had never been close. He had no wish to deal with her right then. 

He had passed through the marketplace, oddly desserted in the snow. Situated as it was on a large river that flowed to the sea less than sixty miles away, Sherrinford was a place of foreign trade as well as serving more local markets. The river was wide, and supported large ships coming from all corners of the known world. Exotic goods could be had here, at a price, and things could be found here that could not be sought other than in the capital. Right now though, there were no traders in evidence. It was too cold, and even the festival stalls John recalled from his youth were not in evidence. John himself had managed to get one of the few ships leaving the capital for the town at this time of year, stepping off onto the dock at Sherrinford barely a week later. He knew he was lucky to have caught it. There would be none now until the spring, so he was stuck here now. The river would most likely freeze over soon, and that would put a stop to any vessels travelling in and out. In past years the river had been used to hold frost fairs, and people skated along it instead of travelling by road. 

John saw plenty of evidence for the town’s wealth as he walked the streets toward the Keep. He passed large houses situated behind gates and walls with small but formal gardens in front, but despite this obvious show of wealth, the poor were not as poor as in other lesser cities. Nobody starved, and John knew that the old Lord had made sure alms were always distributed to those who could not support themselves. The wealthy were also encouraged to donate to charity. John idly wondered if the old lord’s sons were as conscientious, however there were no beggars in evidence on the streets as he passed through the town. Good job too with the snow thick on the ground and still falling. The local monastery was large and known to care well for any pilgrims passing through. Beggars who came to Sherrinford looking for a better life found it in the monastery that readily gave them jobs in their fields and on their farm, as labourers. It made for a good solution all round. The Abbey Farm was one of the largest sheep farms in the area. All told Sherrinford had acquired a reputation for generosity to its less well off citizens. 

**0000000**

Snow continued to fall. Gregory glared at the whiteout and wondered how many would have managed to travel to the Keep in order to celebrate. He had spent the day repairing the cups and tankards for Angelo, and had managed a half dozen. He had been forced to stop or be late for the festivities. There were lots of folk out and about as he left his home to make his way to the festival that evening. He greeted his neighbours, and shouted well-wishes reached his ears. He was clad in his best; a soft linen shirt (the one with a touch of narrow lace at the neck), dark blue linen tunic with purple silk braid trim and just a touch of silver embroidery, fine dark-grey wool hose, new boots, a leather jerkin dyed dark blue, and over all his heavy wool cloak, lined with soft warm coney fur, and fastened with the wrought pin he had made himself. Not usually a vain man—he wasn’t getting any younger, that was sure—Greg nevertheless liked to dress up a bit now and again. He could afford it, he was a Master of his craft, and if he chose to let the world know that he was a prosperous member of his guild then so be it. He wore a knife at his belt of his own making, one with an intricately carved antler handle, alongside a metal cup of his own crafting, and a stout pouch for coin and such other sundries as he may need, like his kerchief and his keys. He would most likely stay the night as had happened in other years. They usually had a fire going in one of the lesser halls for folk to shelter in until the ‘morrow. Bed rolls, blankets and furs were provided and the Keep kitchens had even provided posset and pottage for breaking fast on the morning after. That is, if they were in luck and the younger Lord was as generous as his father… 

Gregory had also heard the man was handsome, and this _was_ the night when Lord served Commoner, after all. Gregory grinned to himself, wondering. His thoughts had drifted to whimsy, thinking about himself managing to capture the interest of a lord… _Never in a hundred sundays_. Commoners did not catch the eyes of Lords for anything other than a quick dalliance in the hay. Besides, Gregory realised he knew nothing about the man other than his name. He was probably lined up to marry a rich heiress from another county by now. Shaking himself free of such fantasies, he diverted to The Magpie to hand over the cups he had repaired, before presenting himself at the Keep. 

**0000000**

The hall was buzzing with too much noise, John thought, bemused. He had made his way to the keep the day before and asked if there was work to be had, only to be accosted by...well, he wasn’t sure who by, to be honest. _He was handsome,_ John thought, struggling to keep his balance on the icy ground. The dark-haired man had spotted him, come right into his space and asked “Afghanistan or Iraq?” and it had gotten weirder from there. The man had noticed things, reading his army service in his hair, and his tanned flesh, and his limp, and pinning him down as a barber surgeon almost instantaneously. It had felt like magic. When the man, for he was somewhat fae and ethereal as far as John was concerned, invited him to the festival, he hadn’t been able to refuse. So here he was, fighting through the snow and ice of the Keep yard on a whim… and nearly bumped into the silver-haired stranger coming the other way.

“Oof! Sorry, my friend. Are you alright there?” 

John staggered, but caught himself, and apologised profusely. “Sorry, sorry, my duff leg…” 

“Nonsense. My fault. I’m trying to get to the Magpie to deliver these cups before festival….” The man stared at him, eyes narrowing. “John? Watt’s son, isn’t it? Great saints, I’ve not seen you for...years. It’s Greg, Gregory Lestrade? The Smith?”

John’s eyes widened. “Gods, Greg, nice to meet you again.” They shook hands, enthusiastically.

“So, John, getting beaten to a pulp in the wars, aye?”

“Unfortunately,” John admitted. “No more though. I’ve come back for good.”

“Good, that’s good to know. Seen Harry yet?”

“Not yet. Got in yesterday, took a room at the Inn last night after…”

“After?”

“I met someone, lives at the Keep...bit odd but...well, he’s probably the most interesting thing has happened to me since I got back.”

“You heading there tonight?”

“I am. Odd man invited me to the festival. Gods know why, we only just met.”

“Tall, dark hair, bit wild?”

“Possibly?”

“Probably the younger son of the Lord.”

“Sherlock?”

“Aye, bit odd by all counts but seems to be on the side of the Angels. I was hoping to meet the elder brother tonight. Here, wait on a moment, I’ll drop these with Angelo and walk with you…”

While he waited, John dragged the note out of his pocket and reread it, a note he had found stuffed in his pocket after speaking with the mad stranger. 

_Please come_ _if convenient,_ it read. _Come anyway, even if it’s not._ There was an added _Could even be dangerous_ on the bottom of the note _._ There was no way in Hell John was shrinking away from an intriguing invitation like that. 

**0000000**

It was all very festive, despite people’s hardships and personal tragedies, Mycroft thought, pleased. Everyone had made such an effort to make things look bright and welcoming. This time of year was all about having survived the last year and looking forward to the new one, bringing light to the darkest time, and finding camaraderie with one’s fellows. This year though, Mycroft’s heart wasn’t in it. While he could be satisfied with the efforts made, pleased that others would not find the household lacking in its hospitality, Mycroft had never been comfortable with the rowdiness and the boisterous lack of inhibition that those of lower class displayed in the first place. The rules of lordly protocol did not apply to them. He had always been a little bit envious of that, but had never felt comfortable around it. Coupled with the loss of his mother and sister to the virulent fever in the capital, and his father’s damaged faculties, Mycroft found he had little interest in the frivolity of the festival. 

Mycroft had been forced to take the reins and assume the title and responsibilities of the Lord despite his father still being in the land of the living. The man was no longer capable of carrying out his duties. Moreover it had meant the cutting short of a promising career in the capital, and leaving the life that Mycroft had been slowly and painstakingly building for himself. He was lonely, unmarried, adrift in provincial life that differed wildly from the legal and political career that he had hoped for. The festival merely served to highlight this fact for him. The Capital saw more genteel festivities, dinner parties, dances and soirees that were altogether more agreeable. He had eventually stopped returning home for Yuletide. 

“So apparently both brothers returned here after the tragedy to assume control. Mycroft gave up a promising career in the capital from what I heard.”

“But he’d have needed to return here at some point to take over from his father...wouldn’t he?”

“Well, he is the heir, but I think he was hoping Sherlock might have taken an interest, left him to pursue his law practice. Even then, he should have had more years than this. It’s misfortune that Siger took so sick and lost his mind.”

“They lost their mother and sister?”

“Hmm, both of them. Very sad. Listen, John...if you’ve a mind, I know it’s a bit different from what you might be used to, but...I’ve an opening for someone in the forge if you need employment? Wouldn’t be much but I’m on my own in the house, after the wife...well...” He scratched his hand distractedly through his hair and ruffled the strands self consciously. “Well, anyway, there’s a spare room. I could teach you the craft, if you’ve a mind?”

John paused, momentarily floored by the offer. “I...wow...I mean, thanks. Might need to think on it…”

“Think away. Take all the time you need. Just occurred to me that you need a job, and I could do with help, so...might work all round.” The two men made their way into the Keep, the rising noise greeting them as they entered the massive entrance hall, decorated with festive greenery and what seemed like about a million candles. 

**0000000**

Mycroft watched from his position behind the high table on the dias as everyone entered, to be greeted by Carson and have their invitations checked over. He watched his brother descend on a new arrival, a short blond man with a limp. He seemed very….interested in the man; ex-army, injured, recently discharged, barber surgeon… Mycroft would have to quiz his brother about his interest, although Sherlock showing interest in someone else was tantamount to a miracle. His brother veritably swooped on the newcomer, letting Carson know he was invited. The two men disappeared into the throng. 

Mycroft was not looking forward to an evening of serving someone else, not because he disliked work or disagreed with the tenets of the festival, but no doubt he would have to suffer the indignities of serving some overly boisterous idiot with delusions of grandeur… He shuddered, wanting the night to be over. He had deliberately dressed down, resorting to rough russet and linen, leaving his better clothes in his room. He had conceded to his rank by dressing in dark grey trimmed with deep red, but the night could get rowdy and spilled ale and food would not come out of velvet very easily. He plastered a smile on his face and braced himself. 

A man had entered the room close on the blond newcomer’s heels, and Mycroft’s breath caught. _Good Lord but this man is beautiful_. Rough hewn, perhaps, but sturdily built, broad shoulders, silver-haired but not as old as such a feature might suggest, he had a ready grin of a distinctly rakish kind. _He’s probably trouble,_ Mycroft thought, but God help him if he didn’t find himself craving trouble of that nature. He looked familiar but Mycroft wasn’t sure from where. Shortly after, his attention was taken by Edwin banging his stick on the floor, shouting for attention. It was time… 

There was an upside to all this, Mycroft reminded himself. The rules governing protocol and how a lord should behave went out the window with the appointing of the Lord of Misrule. He was no more hidebound by rules as the Holly King was. The choosing of the Holly King was a solemn affair that degenerated into chaos and mirth very quickly. The Holly King was the ruler over winter, the Oak King over summer. The Holly King was also the Lord of Misrule, the King for a night. This night, commoner ruled over lord, and the lords and masters served at table, their roles reversed as was traditional. Edwin milked the ceremony for all it was worth, much to the appreciation and delight of the crowd. Finally he pulled a piece of parchment with a name upon it from the large chalice held by one of the serving lads. He made a show of unfolding it, and peered at the name. Then he banged his staff again for silence.

“The Holly King has been chosen. Step forward, The New Lord of Misrule. I beg Master Metalsmith Gregory Lestrade to stand forward.” There was a roar of approval and clapping. _This Lestrade person was obviously well-liked,_ Mycroft thought, which boded a little better than he’d anticipated. 

Greg nearly choked on his ale. _How?_ To be in with a chance, one's name had to be in the chalice, and he hadn’t submitted his own name, not this year. Someone had put his name there, _but who?_ In a daze, he stepped forward, bowing to the chamberlain, _Carson or some such…_ He was not familiar with many at the Keep. It was not a place he frequented. 

“My Lord, if thou would deign to bow thy head…” Carson said with ceremony. 

Gregory did so and a wreath of greenery was placed on his hair, a crown made of ivy, with a few holly leaves interwoven carefully. He hoped it had been well-crafted, as he had no wish to spend the night being prickled. There were silver bells and glass beads interwoven with the leaves, so he _tinkled_ embarrassingly as he moved. 

Mycroft was by turns appalled and excited. The beautiful stranger— _stranger no longer, because his name is now known_ —was to be the Holly King, the Lord of Misrule. _Oh, Gods,_ Mycroft thought. _Why him?_ He was clearly enjoying the role and Mycroft watched entranced as Gregory was passed a wooden sword. From the far door to the hall another figure approached, this one wearing a mask of oak leaves. He filled the doorway, and Mycroft recognised Ben Farrier, Master of the Keep Stables. The man was built like an oak tree, and towered above the Smith by at least six inches. 

“Tis I, the merry Oak King, come to defend my crown.” There was cheering, cat calls and booing. “Who stands before me to take my place?”

“Why, I do,” Greg declared, rolling his sleeves up, and shedding his cloak. “The Holly King am I, and I take my stand. Oak King, prepare to meet thy match.” The words were traditional but largely made-up. There were no lines to learn, and this wasn’t a play. It had been enacted for so long that both men had likely seen it so often, probably from childhood, that they knew the role by heart. 

Mycroft watched the two men move to stand facing each other, then they lifted the swords in salute, and prepared for the mock-battle. They thrust and parried, and clashed the swords a couple of times, if for no other reason than to make noise, although it was immediately apparent that Gregory was obviously a good swordsman. They circled each other, to cheers and whistles, before crossing swords again, but this time the Oak King mock-stumbled, and Gregory brought his sword down across the other man’s neck, stopping the blade before it hit. The Oak King, ‘felled’, fell to his knees, and then onto his face, dramatically and slowly, to much mirth from the audience. “So dies the Oak King, and the Holly King rules,” Gregory cried. Everyone cheered, and someone passed him a cup so full it slopped onto the floor as it passed to his hand. Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed, Gregory drained it in one as the Oak King was borne ceremonially out of the hall on the shoulders of a half-dozen men. Mycroft knew he would return soon, sans mask, to enjoy the party. 

“My Lord, what is thy first decree?” Edwin asked, taking Greg’s sword from him.

 _First decree...it was traditional, after all…_ Greg wracked his memory, and then grinned. _Oh, yes..._ “I bid all ye goodly folk here present to take a seat at my tables, to eat and drink thy fill, and to be merry, for tonight thou art as kings. Lords and Masters all, I bid thee serve thy... _my_ folk well.” 

The new Holly King was escorted to the dias, and made to sit in the lord’s seat, whereupon Greg laid eyes on the most handsome, and yet sad, man he had ever had the good fortune of seeing. The man was gorgeous, his reddish hair and lordly bearing making his slim frame even more desirable, but right then he was wearing lesser garb, obviously in keeping with the evening, and he was bearing a pitcher, full of frothing ale, and looking as attentive as he could. All Greg wanted to do was to speak to him, to get to know him better. He looked… lonely, out of place. 

_This must be the elder brother_ , Greg thought, and beckoned him across. He watched as the man hurried to obey, filling his cup with a rich amber ale, the honey scent of which reached his nose. He inhaled appreciatively. 

“Thank you, squire,” he said, cheekily, raising the glass to his servant. “What do they call you?”

“Mycroft, my Lord Gregory,” came the reply. _This was the lord’s elder son then_ , Greg thought. He grinned happily and drank deeply. 

“Mycroft, attend me well tonight, won’t you?” he ordered. 

“As you wish, my Lord.” _Damn it,_ Greg thought, _if those weren’t words to fire a man’s belly with want. His eyes...blue as the sea, but shadowed. He doesn’t want to be here, and who can blame him really?_

The evening was full of carousing, singing, dancing, and food. Greg hadn’t eaten such good fare for months. Entertainers arrived, their mottley clothing decorated with bits of multicoloured fabric that flapped about as they moved. Jugglers, tumblers and acrobats were among their number, and—unusually—the Keep’s Master of Arms acting the jester. 

“How might I kill a bad entertainer?” he quipped, brandishing his knife. “I would surely go for the juggler…” He made a swiping motion of the blade across his own throat, and pranced away. Gregory laughed, toasting the man with his cup, and draining it, slamming it down on the table to be refilled by Mycroft. _The man is enjoying himself,_ Mycroft thought, enviously. _He is comfortable in this role, a natural leader then._

Gregory joined in with the singing, and between courses, he was dragged onto the floor for dancing more than once, usually by some single woman, probably hoping to catch his eye. Mycroft stood back in the shadows mostly, watching the evening unfold. He was simply hoping to avoid anything that might put him in the limelight. He had been well-known to shun publicity, not to mention possessing a reputation for disliking anything so public as a festival, when he was younger. This, though, was ingrained tradition, and one Mycroft had no intention of abandoning, or worse, banning altogether. His handsome Lord of Misrule was a benefit he hadn’t counted on, expecting one of the older Crafts Masters to be picked. He was heartily glad that it wasn’t someone boring. Although...Gregory was boisterous, dancing vigorously with a variety of women, and once with a young man, singing uproariously and playing games with the best of them. Mycroft waited attentively at table, and refused to be drawn into the festivities, despite Greg repeatedly attempting to lure him out. 

“Mycroft, it’ll be fun… Come on, come dance.”

“Alas, My Lord, I have no skill at dancing or singing…not...like _this,_ anyway.”

“Mycroft, I thought you were supposed to serve my every whim…” Greg declared, gifting him a cheeky grin again. 

“I am well-versed in my duties, my Lord,” Mycroft insisted. 

“Aw, come on, Mycroft. You know, you are allowed to have fun as well. I mean, no rules for us, none for you either.”

“Yes, I am aware. However….”

“Gregory, come dance! I haven’t had a dance with you yet!” The young woman who grabbed his arm and dragged him, laughing, into the middle of the room, was rather too young, if mycroft was any judge. She was also somewhat drunk. Greg swung her round for a few bars and then propelled her into her father’s arms and smiled. Her father grabbed her and prevented her following as Greg made his way back to table. _Probably her first festival,_ Mycroft considered, as he served the next course, making sure Gregory had some choice cuts of meat in front of him on his return. There were also cheeses, fruits, honey cakes and sweetmeats a plenty. Mycroft had made sure his kitchens had outdone themselves. Greg paused to eat, and Mycroft made sure his ale kept coming.

“No good, this,” Greg said, finally wiping his hands on his napkin and throwing it onto the table. “I am the King tonight, and my decree is that you are going to dance with me. You, boy!” he called, to which a young lad in livery ran over. “Go ask the Minstrels to play a brawl*.” The lad ran off. Greg turned to Mycroft, walked up to him and wrested the jug from his hands, almost slamming it onto the table. Thankfully it was no longer full. “Promise you, I’ve got you,” he reassured, smiling. There was nothing Mycroft could do against the hard grip on his arm. Gregory wasn’t hurting, but he wouldn’t be swayed. 

The crowd parted, realising who was taking the floor. “My servant,” Greg declared, “had graciously deigned to dance with me. A brawl it is.” The minstrels began to play a rapid beat. Greg and Mycroft faced each other and bowed, seeing that others had lined up alongside. Greg took his hand, grinning, and dragged him in a side-step quickly to the left, then mirrored it to the right, then they repeated the move. Keeping their hands clasped Greg whirled him in a circle, first one way, then the other. It was exhausting, exhilarating, _and actually rather fun_ , Mycroft found himself thinking reluctantly. Of course he stumbled, unused to the boisterous dances of the country folk, but Gregory caught him, steadied him, stopped him falling. Mycroft was more used to the courtly style of dance favoured in the city, sometimes the same steps but slower, more measured. This was...breathless, _and joyful_ , his rebellious mind supplied, _and exuberant_. More than once he caught Greg’s gaze, almost drinking him in. Mycroft wondered. When the music stopped, they were both exhausted, sweaty, and in dire need of a drink. 

Mycroft made his way back to the table, intent on pouring himself some ale, but a full cup was pressed to his hand and Gregory’s fingers were warm on his. “That,” the man said, “was amazing. You are a liar, Mycroft.”

“Beg pardon?”

“You can dance, and you dance well.”

“I can dance, but I am not used to...well, to this. My dancing is usually slower, and infinitely more boring.” 

“Well, that was amazing, thank you.”

“More ale?”

“Mycroft, you don’t have to keep this up, you know?” Greg was looking at him strangely. “I’m sure you could retreat to your rooms. I can find someone else who’ll serve me.”

“Am I so bad?”

Greg laughed. “Not at all, but you look…” Then he sobered, and took a steadying breath. “Well, I heard what happened to your family this year. I can’t imagine you _want_ to be here, not right now. It’s all very well keeping up appearances but you’ve been through a tough time. Yule festival is all about merry making, and you don’t look like your heart is in it.”

“I.I am sorry...I...I _have_ tried…” 

“No...please, don’t be sorry. You’re the real Lord of the Keep, Mycroft. Me? I’m just assuming a fake role for one night. This is incredibly generous, you know. You’ve given us an amazing time, and the food...Your kitchens have worked magic. The decorations are…” He waved a hand around, indicating the room, “truly lovely. All this, and you coping with your loss…I honestly have no idea how you’ve managed.”

“Th.th.thank you. I...I did want to make sure my father’s legacy was not abandoned. He loved this time of year…”

“Mycroft, you talk about him as if he’s...well, as if he’s no longer with us.”

“He isn’t. Not really. His memory...the illness took his strength and his memory from him. He doesn’t know where he is half the time…He did not recognise me yesterday.” Mycroft watched as Gregory’s expression crumpled with compassion.

“And you don’t need reminding of it, not tonight,” he said gently. “I’m sorry. I’ll shut my mouth and hold my peace. It’s none of my business really.” He turned back to view the festivities. 

Mycroft sighed. “Thank you for your concern,” he said carefully. “Truly, I do not mind your observations. Nobody else has expressed concern.”

“What do you mean, nobody?”

“Exactly that. Nobody has asked me how I feel, or how things are for me, beyond maybe Edwin or Carson. They enquire of my father, not I.”

“Seriously? Nobody asks you if you’re alright?”

“I lost my mother, and my sister, and I might as well have lost my father. His mind is about gone, and as I said, he doesn’t remember my face. Why Sherlock and I are alive beggars belief. I am told we were immune to the pestilence that ravaged the capital. Frankly, it was a miracle we were not all dead.” 

“This time of year is hard when you’ve lost someone.”

“You sound as though you speak from experience.”

“Some years ago, but yes. I lost my wife to a fever just before Yule nearly ten years since, and my second partner ran off with another man three years ago. Although that was in summer, not Yule, but hey, I’m still alive…” 

“Not happy though.”

“Hey, I’m thankful for what I have; my health, my work, my friends, good neighbours.”

Mycroft managed a smile. “Would you…?” he paused, uncertain. 

“Would I what?”

“Would you care for a nightcap after the festivities come to an end...always supposing someone doesn’t catch your eye, that is? There are quite a few people whose eye you have caught tonight.”

Greg chuckled, draining his cup. “I know, but no, I haven’t found anyone special yet. Well… unless…” he turned, gazing at Mycroft, his brown eyes grown darker, candle light flickering in their warm depths.

“Were you planning on staying the night?” Mycroft asked, trying to make his voice light. “I have instructed the lesser chamber to be warmed for any guests who wish to stay, and the kitchen is ordered to provide vittals on the morrow.” 

“Generous, like I said. Yes, I was going to stay. Drunk a bit too much to be safe in the snow.”

“Well, the lesser chamber is open, unless...unless you would prefer a feather bed tonight?”

Greg’s eyebrows rose a little. “What are you suggesting, my lord?”

“I am not your lord, tonight, and I am suggesting that you might like a more comfortable bed for your stay.”

“Would there be anyone else in this comfortable bed?”

“As you wish,” came the enigmatic reply.

“Who, you?”

“As you wish.”

Greg was silent for a moment. He contemplated his empty cup. “I would only wish it, if I had a guarantee that it wouldn’t be merely for one night. I am not some lordling’s plaything, nor am I a dalliance.” He hiccuped softly. “I’m lonely, Mycroft. I need someone for more than one night. I’m sorry...”

“I…” At that moment, some more women rushed up, grabbing Greg’s arms and dragging him into the throng again. Mycroft shut his mouth. He swallowed hard. Then he refilled Gregory’s cup, set the jug down, and walked away from the table. He watched for a moment as Greg joined in with some silly game with a half dozen other young people. He was obviously happy, Mycroft thought, walking out of the hall. 

When Greg returned to the table, he found his cup full, but no sign of Mycroft. _Damn it all, if only I hadn’t been dragged away just then…_ He looked up to see a young lean man standing on the other side of the table, his hair a wild shock of dark curls around his head. Pale eyes stared at him for a moment.

“Where is my brother?” the man asked. 

“Your brother? Who is that then? What’s his name?”

“Mycroft. I’m Sherlock Holmes. He was serving you.”

“I have no idea, I swear. He was here, and then I got dragged off by someone to play a game. He wasn’t here when I got back.” The young man frowned. “Where would he go?” Greg asked. “His rooms?”

“Probably. Although I am surprised he left early. He usually takes his duties very seriously.”

“Yeah well, that might have been me. I know what a shit year you two have had, so I kind of released him from his duties. I cannot imagine how difficult it must be for you at this time of year.”

“Difficult?”

“Yeah, with losing your family, Sherlock…”

For a moment the young man looked thoughtful. “Yes, yes it is,” he said, seriously. “However, Mycroft insisted we do this for the good of the township, and to honour our father. I cannot fault him for that.”

“No indeed. Look, would you be able to tell me where his room is? He offered me to stay with him…” The young man cocked his head on one side and frowned. 

“Did he now?” For a moment, Greg was scrutinised thoroughly, and then the young man smiled brightly, obviously delighted. “Well, well, so my brother has found himself a goldfish. When your duties are ended here, which should be around midnight, I’ll take you to his room. What you do after that is your own affair, and I want to hear nothing about it, but understand this. Hurt him and I will hunt you down and ruin you, am I clear?”

“As crystal. That’s the last thing I want to do, believe me.” 

“Good.” 

“Sherlock, there you are.” The speaker was John, blue eyes now staring at the pair of them, hands laden with drinks. 

“Thank you, John,” he said, plucking a cup from the man’s hand and inhaling the scent. “Ah, mead. A good choice. This is Gregory Lestrade, Master metalsmith and my brother’s...well, not sure what he is yet, but time will tell.”

“I know, Sherlock, we met earlier. He’s offered me a job.” Sherlock looked from one man to the other and smiled widely. 

“Come along then. We have things to do…” John shook his head in exasperation, nodded to Greg and hurried off after the fae young lord. Greg laughed, bemused by the turn of events. 

The midnight bells rang out across the town, every church bell ringing joyously to celebrate Yule. Greg knew he could bow out now if he needed to, despite hopeful looks his way from quite a few unattached young ladies, and a couple of the men as well. He spotted Carson, and went to say a final farewell to the man, if only to deflect some of the looks. 

**0000000**

Mycroft hurried back to his room, retreating from the festivities as fast as he could. He barely held it together as he used the back stairs up to the floor where his rooms were situated. He let himself grieve for what might have been once his door was closed and the key turned in the lock. Gregory had pinned down his feelings perfectly. He understood. He had seen the turmoil behind Mycroft’s carefully constructed mask. Mycroft wondered why the man had to be so... _friendly, approachable, attractive_. _Face it,_ he thought, _The man is perfect._ A man such as he could not hope to win a man of honour and integrity like Gregory Lestrade for longer than a night, and the man had stated that he was not looking for a dalliance. Mycroft knew he had few skills in the bedroom, he was not beautiful or witty or flirtatious, or flattering either. They _had_ been talking, but it was not a discussion, more observation on Gregory’s part. The man was kind, and astute, and compassionate too. Just...he would find himself some good-looking lass, and he would be off….

Mycroft sat morosely in front of the flickering fire until he heard the bells chiming. He drank off his whisky, and then readied himself for bed. He blew out the candles, one by one, stopping by the window to gaze down on the courtyard again, seeing the remains of the yule fire and the last revellers making their way home. It was snowing again, and Mycroft drew the curtains against the drafts. He admitted to himself that he had experienced some fun, some happiness, with his Holly King. At least he hadn’t had to suffer some bumbling idiot… 

A knock at his door startled him. Mycroft got to his feet, and padded to the door. “Who goes?” he asked, warily.

“The Holly King am I,” came the startling reply. “Come to claim that bed that was promised me, if it’s still on offer?”

Mycroft opened the door, incredulity on his face. “You…”

“Me,” Gregory agreed, smiling, his leafy crown tipped at a drunken angle on his silver hair. He bowed low, threatening to make his crown fall off completely. “Where did you go?”

“Here,” Mycroft answered lamely. “I...decided to retreat.”

“Too much for you?” Greg watched Mycroft nod. He smiled, sympathetically. “Can’t say as I altogether blame you. Did give you leave after all… May I enter?”

“Please, do. How did you find me?”

“Your brother,” Greg explained. “He found me, and said he’d bring me hither after my duties had ended. When the bells rang, I called an end of it and he brought me here. Threatened me too. Quite the lad, your brother.”

“He threatened you?”

“Yes, in case I hurt you.”

“Oh. I see...I think.”

“Protective, that one. You’ve got a good one there.” Greg paused, looking at Mycroft’s state of undress. “You were about to go to bed?”

“Yes. Er...you wish to...join me?”

“Of course I do, if you’ll have me?”

“I should tell you, I am...woefully inexperienced…”

Greg grinned. “Well, good job at least one of us knows what he’s doing.” He produced a sprig of mistletoe from behind his back. “I liberated this. Wondered if you’d do me the honour of allowing me a kiss under it? I hear that whoever kisses under this, will be wed by the following year…”

Mycroft sniffed. “You believe in that hocus pocus?”

“And why not?” Greg grinned widely. “Besides, it’s a good excuse.” 

“I dare say I cannot disagree.” 

Greg held up the sprig, and stepped close. Mycroft could almost hear his heart hammering. Their lips met softly, then more firmly, as Mycroft allowed Gregory to take control. The kiss lengthened, each man reluctant to break away. Eventually though, air was required, and Greg pulled back, gasping softly. “That was….phew.” He looked blearily at the green sprig in his hand and grinned. “Magic,” he said. Then he swallowed, almost nervously. “Let me take you to bed, Mycroft, please?”

Mycroft nodded, not trusting his voice. Greg took his hand and drew him to the bedside. 

“I bow to the Holly King’s will,” Mycroft murmured softly, seeing a shiver pass through Gregory’s body. 

“Keep talking like that and I won’t be held responsible for my actions,” Greg replied, face lit with another bright smile. He licked his lips, tongue darting out. Mycroft could not help but watch it. He reached up and let his fingers caress a stubbled cheek. Greg’s eyes were soft as they watched him, crow’s feet at their corners crinkling as a gentle smile spread across his lips. Hands found their way to Mycroft flanks, stroking carefully. Gradually, pieces of clothing were discarded, each man revealing the other’s body bit by careful bit. Greg kissed every bit of skin that was revealed, and Mycroft revelled in it. Firelight played off the planes of Gregory’s muscles, highlighting the strength in the man’s body. Mycroft delighted in it all. 

When they eventually got into bed, hands all over each other, Mycroft was laid gently on his back. Gregory slid down the bed, and Mycroft was treated to his lover’s lips and tongue lavishing attention on his cock. Tears squeezed from his closed eyes as exquisit feelings coursed through him, teased out by Greg’s gentle ministrations. He had never been adored, but this felt like... _like worship_. Greg eventually pulled off and rose up, gentle fingers wiping the tears away. His smile was tender, and he kissed the tip of Mycroft’s nose. Moments later, he captured Mycroft’s mouth again in a searing kiss, derailing his thoughts. 

“I want to fuck you,” Greg whispered coarsely. “Would you let me?”

Mycroft’s eyes widened. “I haven’t…ever...”

“That’s okay. Not going to push you to do anything if you’re not ready…”

“No, no, it’s not that I don’t want to, simply that I have never had the pleasure… Please, just…take care of me?”

Greg smiled again but this time it was eager, altogether more lusty. “Oh, love,” he murmured, huskily, “of course I will. I shall be as gentle as you need me to be.”

Gregory prepared him so gently it made Mycroft want to weep again. His hands were calloused, rough with work, but he handled Mycroft gently and carefully, as if he were made of glass, or a delicate fabric in danger of tearing. Greg’s hands might be large, and strong, but he was skilled, capable of gentleness and delicacy. He took his time, pausing if Mycroft exhibited any discomfort, watching his expression for any change and acting accordingly. When he was sure Mycroft was ready, he again took things slowly, sheathing himself carefully. When he was fully inside, both men bore identical expressions of shock and wonder. “Move, please Gregory…” Mycroft whispered, and then Gregory _moved_ , and he saw stars.

The two men slept late into the morning. The bed was warm and comfortable and when he woke, for a moment Greg had no idea where he was. Then he looked over and saw Mycroft, and smiled. _Yule magic,_ he thought. There could be no other explanation. First to be elected Holly King, and then...to capture Mycroft’s regard. It was too good to be true. He found Mycroft’s eyes on him, watching as if afraid to speak. 

“Morning, my Lord…”

“Don’t call me that, please. Ever again, Gregory. I am not _your_ lord. Please, use my name.” 

Greg gave him a soft smile. “Last night was...truly wonderful, my...Mycroft,” he amended. “But in the cold light of day, what on earth could you want from me, a lowly smith?”

“And since when has smith crafting been lowly?” Mycroft scoffed. “You are a skilled man, Gregory. Very skilled. In _many_ ways…” 

“Thank you, but... _honestly_ …”

“I encourage you to be honest with me,” Mycroft said, “and I shall likewise be honest with you. I may be a lord, with all that entails, but...you are an honest craftsman, a master of your chosen craft, and you are as worthy of my attention as anybody else. You are truly the most beautiful man I have ever laid eyes on, as well as the kindest. I find I want more than one night from you, Gregory. If you are willing to give it. Question not as to why, I have no answer for you.”

“If you’re sure?”

“As sure as I will ever be.”

“I have no idea how I got to be Holly King you know. I mean, I thought your name had to be put into the chalice. I don’t know who did that, because I didn’t.”

“Neither do I, because it was not my doing either, but now is not the time to question it. Your name was drawn, you were chosen. Somehow, Yule brought us together, and I am not going to question the wisdom of fate.”

Greg laughed, and grabbed the man beside him for a hug. “In that case, _my lord,_ neither will I. Merry Yule, Mycroft. Looks like the mistletoe did its work, aye?”

“Perhaps. Only time will tell,” he said, leaning to kiss his Holly King again. “What do you want to do now?”

“I wonder...would you be up for a repeat of last night?” Greg nuzzled Mycroft’s shoulder, kissing along to his neck. He felt Mycroft shiver beneath his touch. Greg hoped with all his heart that this was the beginning of something wonderful, for them both. He met Mycroft’s blue gaze with his own dark brown, seeing something he had never hoped to see. Hope and desire and need, all for him. It took his breath away. 

Mycroft smiled, happily. 

“As you wish,” he murmured softly into his lover’s hair.

**Author's Note:**

> *a branle, pronounced 'brawl', was a medieval dance which could be sedate and courtly or boisterous and common, danced by a chain of dancers, usually in couples, with linked arms or holding hands. The dance alternated a number of larger sideways steps to the left (often four) with the same number of smaller steps to the right so that the chain moved gradually to the left.


End file.
